


Far Too Ill for Sarcasm

by Bluestofsteel



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Fangirl - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluffy Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, M/M, Post-Book: Carry On, Post-Watford (Simon Snow), Sarcasm, Sick Character, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Gay for Simon Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 09:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15554514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluestofsteel/pseuds/Bluestofsteel
Summary: Simon Snow is ill, and Baz takes care of him. Sickeningly fluffy.





	Far Too Ill for Sarcasm

**SIMON**

“Snow?”

Baz’s voice rings through the flat. I hear him set his keys down on the table by the door, and walk towards my room. He never bothers to take his shoes off. And he says _I’m_ the messy one. 

He sticks his head in the door. “Aleister Crowley, you look terrible. What happened?”

“I’m sick, you arse,” I croak. I’m sat in bed, propped up on both my pillows, and one of Penny’s. My jeans and socks are discarded on the floor, and an episode of _The Great British Bakeoff_ is playing on my laptop. “My history professor sent me home.”

Baz slides his satchel off his shoulder and sits at my feet. “Oh, you poor thing.”

I can’t tell if he’s being sincere. Probably not. 

“I blame you,” I say. “You were the one who made us take The Underground to the theatre, when you’ve got a perfectly good Rolls-fucking-Royce.”

“You’re far too ill for sarcasm. Don’t attempt it. Do you need anything? Tea? Soup? Ibuprofen?” 

“Morphine. Large amounts.”

He sighs. I know he’s holding back from rolling his eyes. His facial expression screams, “What a prima donna.” Nevertheless, he gets to his feet and heads for the kitchen. I try to focus on the program, but the baking just makes me hungry (and reminds me that my throat is too sore to handle solid foods). 

The tinkle of glass draws my attention back to Baz -- I can see right to the kitchen from my room -- rummaging in the cabinet for a mug. Beside him, the kettle is steaming. He must have used **some like it hot**. “Enjoying the view?” he says, without turning around. 

“Mmm. Always do.” I close my laptop and turn to my side, resting my chin on the crook of my elbow. Baz’s dress shirt stretches taut across his back whenever he leans forward, showing off his shoulderblades. He insists on dressing like Tom Hiddleston every day, even if he’s just going to class. I try to get him to wear jeans every so often. 

He comes back with tea in one hand, a medicine bottle in the other, and sets them down on my bedside table. I fold my legs and he crawls into bed next to me. “You’re lucky I can’t catch colds,” he says as I snuggle into him. 

“ ‘M I ever,” I reply, nestling further against his chest. Baz reaches over me with his free arm and gets the laptop. 

“No more _Bakeoff_ ,” I say. “Makes me hungry.”

“Good. I hate Noel Fielding.” I raise an eyebrow at him. “He looks like one of my aunt Fiona's boyfriends.” 

As I down the pills with tea, he pulls up Netflix. “ _Broadchurch_ , then?” he asks, waiting for me to nod before clicking on the icon. We’re trying to watch all the shows that are up for BAFTAs. 

Halfway through the episode, I’m nearly asleep. Everything is a haze. Olivia Colman’s voice seems distant, and I can’t tell where the bed stops and Baz’s body starts. A sudden, loud argument on the laptop startles me awake. 

Baz snorts. “D’you want me to turn it off, Simon?” he asks, looking down at me and smiling softly. 

I shake my head. “Just . . . don’t move. You’re my new pillow.” 

He’s still smiling. “You’re very endearing when you’re half asleep.” He pulls me further into him and kisses the top of my head. Thank magic he’s always so cold -- I’d be sweltering if he had any body heat. 

 

**BAZ**

 

Snow falls asleep before the episode ends. We’ll have to finish it later. His skin is usually warm in contrast to mine, but today it feels like fire. I resolve to keep an eye on his temperature. 

I haven't done this before, taking care of someone who’s ill. I can comfort Snow when he’s having a bad day, or when the events of last Christmas are getting to him, but I've never been in charge of a person’s wellbeing. If he gets worse, I suppose I could ask Bunce. But for now, my pride forbids it. 

Speak of the devil. The front door opens. She peeks in Snow’s room at us, and I put a finger to my lips, gesturing to him with my head. A fond look passes over her face. Damn her for seeing me this vulnerable. Then again, damn myself for leaving the door open. 

I close Netflix and sign into my Google account. Might as well catch up on classwork. Trying to scroll, type and click with just my left hand proves extremely difficult. It’s worth it, though. Simon looks stunning in his sleep. It’s uncanny. His hair glints in the moonlight (or, in this case, lamp-light) and droops into his face. He seems calmer, even now, with his incessant snoring. 

The sun has set by the time he wakes up. Bunce is cooking something. His sixth sense for food probably woke him. He sits up, and falls back against the headboard with a sniffle. I shift my arm so it rests across his waist. “How’d you sleep?”

He shrugs. “Had weird dreams.” His voice is gravelly. Talking must hurt him, because he cringes slightly. “Dreamt I was on the cliff in the show.” 

I rub my hand up and down his hip. 

From the kitchen, Bunce calls, “I made some soup, Simon. Do you want it now?”

He looks at me and nods. “He does,” I say for him. 

She brings a tray into his room. The soup is bright orange and steaming. Next to it is a glass that’s more ice than water.

“It’s carrot and ginger. Baz, I made curry, but you’ll have to come to the kitchen to get it.” She glances down at Simon. “We can’t all be waited on like kings.”

He glares at her. I climb out of bed and go get my dinner. Bunce and I discuss spell etymology while we eat standing over the counter. I look back at Snow. He’s kicked the covers off, and is sipping idly at the soup from a spoon. 

“He looks terrible,” Bunce says. 

I nod. “I hope it’s just a cold. I . . . I’m worried I wouldn’t know when to take him to a hospital.”

“Oh, I’m sure it won’t get to that,” she says. “Simon’s slayed dragons. A cold can’t do him much harm.” After a moment, she adds, “It’s sweet that you’re worried, though.”

I square my shoulders and try to give her a grimace, but Snow sneezes and I whip my head back in his direction. Bunce laughs as she puts her bowl in the sink. “Go back to playing nurse. I’ve got studying to do.”

“Oh, sod off,” I say. But I still go back to Snow’s room, when she’s out of sight. I nudge his discarded jeans with my toe. “Wouldn’t you rather be wearing pyjamas?” I ask. 

“I guess so.” He moves to get to his feet, and I gently push him back down. “Don’t get up — I’ll get them.”

“Just because I’m ill doesn’t mean I can’t walk,” he says, elbowing past me. He takes two steps before grabbing hold of my arm. 

“Doesn’t it?”

“ ‘M fine. Fine. Just headrush. Let me—”

“Hush and go back to bed,” I say. 

Simon rolls his eyes. His hand slides down my arm and I take it in mine before it drops, planting a kiss on his knuckle. In the top dresser drawer, where he keeps his pyjamas, I find a pair of sleeping shorts and toss them to him. I take his empty bowl into the kitchen while he changes. When I return, his shirt has joined the pile of clothes on the floor. 

Thankfully, I haven’t fed in a while. Otherwise, I’d be blushing. Even after all this time, after eight years of being roommates, after a year and a half of being boyfriends, Snow’s exuberant good-looks still make me giddy. 

He senses me staring and turns to look at me. With a groan, he opens his arms and says, “Come back to bed, love.”

I settle in his arms. “I thought I was supposed to be the one holding you,” I say.

He groans again. “No. You’re my personal ice-pack.”

“My, how romantic.”

Snow kisses me just below my ear. “My handsome, clever, _smartass_ personal ice-pack.”

I lean back against his shoulder, and turn my head so I can look at him. He’s grinning, even though his breathing is laboured and there are bags under his eyes. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s finish that episode before I get tired again.”


End file.
